Secrets of Midnight (37 page)

Finally Corisande could stand the endless pacing in her
room no longer. Her mind was made up. But she couldn't just go there and
confront them. They would laugh in her face. But they wouldn't dare laugh at
her if
she
. . .

Corisande's heart was racing before she got to Donovan's
room; the vivid memories she had tried so hard to hold at bay hit her with full
force as soon as she saw his bed. A bed that must have been made hours
ago—Lord, she could just imagine what Ellen Biddle must have wondered upon
seeing the blood. Two deflowerings?

Shoving the thought away, Corisande concentrated upon
her search, and it didn't take her long. She found Donovan's pistol easily in
the bottom wardrobe drawer, a shiver coursing through her when she traced her
fingers over the smooth barrel, wondering how many men he might have shot—

"Oh, Lord." She didn't muse any further on
that score; Donovan was an army officer after all. Instead she hid the pistol
beneath her cloak and quickly went downstairs, deciding she would leave through
the front door and let everyone wonder. She should have guessed Henry Gilbert
might be watching for her. The agent rushed from the drawing room, his huge
Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

"I'm going out for a stroll, Gilbert," she
began, only to see that the scrawny fellow had the audacity to step in front of
her.

"F-forgive me, Lady Donovan, but Lord Donovan
asked that if you go out anywhere, I should accompany you."

"I only plan a short stroll, there's no need to
trouble
yourself
—"

"But it's no trouble, my lady, truly. And if I don't,
I'm sure you understand that His Lordship will be most displeased with me."

"Henry."

"Y-yes, my lady?"

Corisande drew out the pistol and leveled it at the man's
stomach, and Henry Gilbert's eyes nearly popped from his head. "I strongly
suggest you go back into the drawing room and have yourself a nice brandy. Are
we understood?"

She didn't have to say another word as the agent
slipped and slid across the polished floor in his haste to oblige her. And when
Corisande turned back to the front door, she saw that the footman had
disappeared too.

Lord help her, now if things would only go this
smoothly with those Frenchmen.

Chapter 33

"Why, they're not here, Corie. Left in the wee
hours of the morning, they did, half knocking down my door to tell me they were
going on their way. Pah! Good riddance, I say! An' do 'ee think they left me
an extra pence
or two for how well my Oliver and I treated
them?"

Corisande jumped at how hard Rebecca Trelawny slapped
the wet cloth upon the trestle table, the woman clearly disgruntled as she
scrubbed vigorously.

"An' that's not the worst of it! A fine new
fishing boat was taken during the night, can 'ee believe that? Slipped out of
the harbor without a soul giving any notice at all—
which is
no surprise!
After that gale an' the shipwreck, why, everyone was
exhausted and snug in their beds, giving no heed that there might be thieves
among us."

"You think those men took it, then?"
Corisande had scarcely asked before Rebecca hit the table with another
resounding whack, causing several old fishermen to lift their heads from their
ale with some apprehension.

"Ais, so I do! I told Oliver from the very first
when those three came round asking for rooms that they had a mean, harsh look
about them, but he laughed an' gave me no mind. I told that to the constable,
too, just this morning, but there's nothing to be done now. The boat's gone,
they're gone—" Rebecca paused, straightening from the table to study
Corisande. "Why would 'ee be asking for them, Corie? Aw, no, don't tell me
they stole from the church!"

"No, no, nothing like that," Corisande
hastened to assure her, although she didn't quite know how to explain why she
was looking for them. She certainly couldn't tell the truth; Rebecca would
worry, and with Oliver still being out at sea . . . "Um, well—"

"Ah, Corie dear, give me a moment, will 'ee?"
Rebecca threw the cloth over her shoulder and rushed across the smoky room to
the hearth. "I've got a leek an' pork pie cooking—my Oliver's favorite—an'
he'll have a fit if the crust is scorched."

More than grateful that she'd been spared from
struggling for an explanation, Corisande called out, "That's all right,
Rebecca, I must run! Take care now."

She was gone out the door before the woman had turned
from the oven. The pistol Corisande held beneath her cloak was clasped so
tightly in her hand that her fingers had begun to cramp. With dusk quickly
fading into darkness, she leaned with a sigh against a wall, filled with as
much relief as fury that her attackers had apparently left Porthleven.

So what had that French bastard meant, then? When she
heard from him again? Obviously they wouldn't dare to return to the village
now, not after stealing a fishing boat if, indeed, they had been the ones to
commit the crime. But who else would have done such a foul—

Corisande gasped, her thoughts scattering, as a
thunderous cannon shot shattered the peaceful stillness and a huge explosion of
water burst high into the air only a hundred yards from the end of the quay. In
shock she looked farther out to sea where a ship under full sail was making
directly for the harbor while behind her another ship, much larger, bore down
in hot pursuit.

Oh, God, a revenue cruiser giving chase, she was
certain of it, while in front . . . in front . . .

As shouts went up throughout the village, people
spilled from their homes and rushed down to the harbor. Corisande began to run
along the quay as more cannon boomed, the shots clearly intended as a direct
warning for the
Fair Betty
to heave
to and allow herself to be boarded. For now Corisande was convinced the hapless
cutter was Oliver's; she watched in horror as another roaring blast sent up a
great plume of water so near to starboard that she feared the cannon fire might
have struck the ship.

"Lord help us, oh, no, oh, no, 'tes my Oliver! My
Oliver!" Rebecca Trelawny's hoarse cries rent the air, the woman at once
grabbed by neighbors as she nearly toppled from the quay in her desperate
frenzy.

Corisande had never felt
so
helpless as she watched the
Fair Betty
,
so close now to harbor, finally slacken her speed and give way to the king's
cruiser. A hue of such outrage—whistles and curses and catcalls, boos and
hisses—arose from the village that she had no doubt Oliver and his crew would
hear it and take heart that their neighbors and friends were with them in
spirit.

She added her own voice to the wild melee, shaking her
fist, shaking the pistol as an eight-oared galley filled with armed excisemen
was launched from the cruiser, and she gave no heed that she was squeezing upon
the trigger. She was knocked to her knees when the weapon suddenly fired, her
ears ringing so loudly from the deafening crack as she struggled to rise that
she didn't hear Donovan shouting until he was almost upon her.

"Good God, Corie, put that damned thing down! Will
you have them think someone's firing out there and start a battle?"

Flushing with chagrin, she dropped the pistol as if it
were
a live snake, and Donovan grabbed up the weapon and
shoved it into his belt.

"I—I'm sorry," she began, only to stiffen
when he hauled her to her feet, deep indignation filling her. "For heaven's
sake, why am I apologizing to you? You had a hand in this, didn't you? Somehow
you found out about Oliver returning tonight and you alerted the king's men! I
should have known you'd be here to watch—"

"I'm here because once again, woman, I had to come
looking for you!" Donovan pulled her along with him to where he'd left
Samson. "And thank God I did too. Come, we've got to hurry."

"Hurry? Are you mad?" Corisande tried to
wrest herself free, but Donovan's grip upon her arm was like a steel vise. "I
can't go, I have to stay here! God knows what they're going to do to Oliver—"

"You can't help him, Corie. His fate is in the
Crown's hands now. But your father needs you and Frances too!"

She stopped struggling, noticing for the first time how
grim Donovan looked, his face etched deeply with worry.

"My father? What's wrong? What's happened?"

He didn't readily answer, lifting her onto Samson's back
and then vaulting up behind her.

"Donovan?"

"Your sisters are gone, Corie. They were taken
from their beds sometime during the night."

"Taken?"

His grave nod left Corisande cold, so cold that she
could only stare blindly ahead of them as Donovan guided Samson from the
crowded quay and onto the road where he kicked the animal into a gallop. As
villagers scattered out of their way, it seemed they had reached the parsonage
in an instant, the place eerily dark and silent but for a light burning in the
kitchen window.

"After what you spouted earlier about wanting to
go home, I came here first to look for you and found Frances and your father
instead," Donovan said, lifting her down. "Then I heard the cannon
and— Hell, that doesn't matter. Your father was tied to a chair when I found
him, Corie. He's been badly beaten, but he'll—Corie?"

She'd fled inside, not waiting for Donovan as she
careened through the parlor and down the hall.

"Papa? Papa!"

She burst into the kitchen, coming up short in front of
the high-backed settle as her father lifted his head from his hands to look at
her. One of his eyes was swollen shut, his face puffy and covered with ugly
bruises, a line of dried blood trailing down the corner of his mouth. Splotches
of dull brown blood stained his shirt.

"Oh, Papa . . ." Tears blinding her,
Corisande looked up at Donovan, whose arm had gone round her waist. "Frances?"

"I carried her upstairs, put her to bed. I found
her down here lying on the floor—she must have been baking."

"Yes, yes, she likes to bake bread late at night,"
Corisande said numbly. "Is she all right?"

"Groggy, can hardly open her eyes, but I think she'll
be fine. She doesn't remember much more than that they forced her to drink
brandy laced with laudanum."

"They?" Corisande whispered, ice-cold
intuition clutching at her heart. Donovan didn't answer, nodding to the piece
of paper that had been skewered to the kitchen table with a knife. But
Corisande went instead to her father; she sank down next to him and laid her
hand on his arm, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. "Papa? What
happened?"

A tear running down his swollen cheek, Joseph Easton
shook his head in despair. "I tried to find it, Corie. I tried so hard to
find it but I couldn't remember . . ."

"Corie."

Starting, she looked up as Donovan handed her the
letter he'd just removed from the table.

"I know you don't like knives."

His voice was so huskily soft, his eyes so full of
concern, she couldn't help but be touched. But her hands were shaking so badly
she couldn't focus upon the writing, and she handed it back to Donovan. "Please
. . ."

"They've taken the girls to France," he said
without looking at the letter, obviously having already read its grim contents.
"To Brittany—Roscoff—where they'll wait only until Monday morning, barely
three days from now. If they don't have what they want by then, Marguerite,
Linette, and Estelle will be given over to Moroccan pirates who still trade
with the French no matter the war—"

"But what could they want?" Corisande cut him
off hoarsely, desperate tears clouding her eyes. "We don't have anything!
My father is a vicar—we've no money!"

"Corie, whoever wrote this letter says your family
has a cache of jewelry that belongs to him."

"Jewelry?"

"He says, too, that he's the one who pushed over
those barrels, who attacked you on the heath, who rode after you that one
night—"

"One night?" Momentarily confused, Corisande
had only to glance at Donovan to know that he must have followed her back to
the Robbertses' that night of the landing. But she didn't press it further as
he went on, his voice becoming angry.

"And he was the one who gave you a warning last
night on the beach. Good God, woman, you never told me that he spoke to you!"

"I did! I said he claimed he hadn't brought me
there to kill me and then I tried to tell you the rest, but you said we would
speak of it tomorrow—" Corisande fell silent, her face burning as she
looked down at her hands. "He told me that when I heard from him again, I
wouldn't doubt that he spoke the truth. I didn't understand . . . it made no
sense until now."

"But I knew. God forgive me, I knew all along . .
."

Corisande glanced at her father, his voice despondent. "Knew
what, Papa?"

"That Louis had done those terrible things. He
came here at night, sometimes during the day at my window. He would tell me—
Ah, but there was nothing I could do! He swore he would kill you if I said a
word to anyone!"

"The window," Corisande murmured, recalling
the day she had brought Donovan to meet her family, and a window in the study had
been open for the first time in years. Her father had been in the garden,
looking so distressed, and then at her wedding, after the barrels, she'd never
seen him so upset—oh, God. Heartsick that she hadn't recognized his torment,
she prodded gently, "You said Louis, Papa. Who is he? Why would he be
doing this to us? If you know, you must tell—"

"He's one of the devil's own. A murderer!"
Joseph turned from her to stare into the cold hearth, his face ashen beneath
the bruises. "I knew nothing of him until he came here—two weeks ago, no
more! He knew your mother when she was a girl—he knew your grandmother
Véronique, too, and hated her. Hated her for the wealth his father, the Marquis
de LaCroix, had squandered upon his mistress—"